


Cold Cold Man

by cherrywinecrowley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Crowley drinks to cope sometimes, angst with eventual happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 16:02:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19815682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrywinecrowley/pseuds/cherrywinecrowley
Summary: Crowley drinks when there’s something on his mind that he doesn’t want to talk about. Aziraphale doesn’t mind that he chooses to drink at the bookshop because he’s safe there, and he can keep an eye on him.But when Crowley drunkenly picks a fight with Aziraphale, things go wrong very quickly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a least a two part series!

Aziraphale’s bookshop was almost always spotless. There was never a speck of dust or a hint of cobwebs anywhere. The shelves were teeming with books but every single one was organized and filed away exactly where it should be. The wood was stained beautifully and natural light flowed in through the many different windows. It was perfect, Aziraphale’s own piece of heaven nestled in the heart of busy downtown life in Soho. 

That all changed whenever Crowley stopped by with several bottles of liquor. The contents of the bottles varied depending on his mood. It was usually wine because he knew Aziraphale preferred wine over most other drinks, particularly reds like cabernets and merlots, but sometimes he brought over whiskey or scotch (and in rare cases, a bottle of vodka). Today was a day that Crowley strolled in carrying a little bit of everything, which clued Aziraphale in to the fact that Crowley was determined to take his mind off something.

But Crowley didn’t like to talk about what was bothering him. He liked to drink. It took the edge off of things for him. And Aziraphale knew well enough by now that if his friend stopped by unannounced, carrying several bags from the liquor store, that it was his way of coping and something was troubling him. Aziraphale was actually glad that Crowley chose to drink in the bookshop when he got into these moods. It made the angel feel more at ease knowing that he was safe, with him. 

But that’s why the shop wasn’t in its usual, pristine condition. Crowley’s legs were haphazardly spread over the couch and he kicked a few papers and books off of Aziraphale’s desk. Several empty bottles had rolled and clinked their way across the floor. Crowley’s coat was tossed over something that definitely was not a hat rack. And if Aziraphale had chosen not to drink with Crowley, all of this would be causing him a tremendous amount of stress. 

But Aziraphale never turned down a drink. If someone asked, he’d go on about how it’s purely a social custom and that if he did not partake, he’d be considered a rude host. The truth was, he loved the warmth and all the sensations that alcohol gave him. He always felt more loose, and for someone as fussy as Aziraphale that feeling could be very liberating. 

But time continued to drag on and the angel and demon had been slumped over in their chairs for a few hours now, talking about whatever interested them in their stupor. Aziraphale felt he’d had enough drinks and that the two of them should start getting themselves together. In some cases if they forgot to miracle the alcohol out of their systems they’d actually experience a hangover, and considering that they could each drink several bottles of alcohol by themselves, it was never a pleasant outcome.

“C-Crowley,” Aziraphale hiccuped. “I’m going to sober up. Think you should too.”

Crowley had been trying to lick the last few drops of his wine from his glass when Aziraphale started talking again. He shifted his focused to the angel and stood up, swaying somewhat. “Why do you always do that?” He said scornfully.

“Do what?” Aziraphale asked, genuinely confused. He’d already made the conscious decision to be sober and the wine miraculously had sloshed its way back into the bottle. Based off of Crowley’s staggered movements and slurred speech, it was apparent that he hadn’t done the same. 

“End everything so q-quick,” Crowley grumbled. “You always ruin all the fun.”

“Sorry to hear you feel that way,” Aziraphale said quietly, a little hurt. “We can always drink more tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” Crowley shouted drunkenly. “Of course, tomorrow! And the next day! And the next day! And the day after that and all the other fucking days!” 

“What the hell are you on about?” Aziraphale snapped. Very rarely was Crowley a mean drunk but when he was, he was testy and crude and Aziraphale hated every second of it.

“You! Ever since I’ve known you all you do is shut me out! You just don’t want to deal with things! Like now! You’re kicking me out. And we’re gonna do the same shit over and over again because you’re don’t want to take a leap of faith.” Crowley had made his way over to the desk and popped off the cap of another bottle of wine. He tipped his head back and poured it straight into his mouth, ignoring the disapproving glare from his friend. 

“You’re right, I don’t want to deal with some things, like a raging drunk in my bookshop. Now please leave!” Aziraphale huffed. Part of him knew his friend was hurting and he desperately wanted to know why, but he knew better than to try to question him when he was in this state. He wasn’t making much sense either. A leap of faith? What the hell did that mean?

“You know I know why you always try and get me to leave,” Crowley sniggered, “Don’t act like I don’t know.”

“And what ulterior motive do you think I have, Crowley?” Aziraphale said, the tone of his voice growing more annoyed by the second. Once Crowley finally sobered up they were going to have a talk; no more drinking for awhile. 

“You’re scared cause I’m the only friend you’ve got. You’ve got no one in heaven. None of the angels like you, they all think you’ve gone native down here. So you’ve got no one but me. And you don’t wanna get too close cause you think I’ll leave you alone, just like they did.” Crowley smirked as he finished his tirade, not noticing the small tears that gathered at the corner of Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“Crowley, sense my tone,” Aziraphale said carefully. “I need you to sober up and go home. We can talk tomorrow.”

“I sense your bullshit alright,” Crowley spat. “And I’m right and you know I’m right. You just wanna be loved. But you think a demon can do that? You think someone with a black heart can love something like you? You’re wrong.” 

Aziraphale heard a soft sound, like a gentle breeze, and suddenly he was all alone. It took him a moment to realize that he had wished so strongly to leave that he actually performed a miracle. He was on a clean bed, and it didn’t take long for him to figure out that he was in a hotel room. 

He balled his hands up into fists and started sobbing, tears streaming down his face and dripping onto his caramel colored coat. Crowley had never, ever spoken to him like that. Did that mean that he meant all of that? Is that why he stopped by, to cut off all ties?

Aziraphale crawled under the sheets of the bed and lied there. He was not a big fan of sleep, but the idea of being unable to think about Crowley’s words for a few hours was very appealing to him. He settled his head against his pillow and shut his eyes tightly. “Maybe this is just all a bad dream,” he thought to himself, “Maybe I’ll wake up and I’ll be back home, and this whole day wouldn’t have happened.”

When the sun shone through the window the next morning and Aziraphale sat up in bed, he rubbed his eyes and looked around the room. He glanced around and noticed things like striped wallpaper and a wooden dresser that wasn’t his. That meant he wasn’t home. That also meant that everything that had happened yesterday was very real. Crowley yelled at him. Crowley dredged up all of his insecurities. And Crowley made it very clear that he did not, and could not, ever love him.

“What the hell,” Aziraphale thought to himself bitterly, “Could use a change of scenery, I suppose.” 

The angel dressed himself and made his way down to the hotel lobby. He stopped and ate breakfast at one of the tables in the lounge. Aziraphale alternated between taking a bite of his toast and circling new apartments in the real estate section of the newspaper in red permanent marker.

It was time to move on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley doesn’t remember much from the night before, but Aziraphale remembers everything.

Crowley wakes up to the sound of banging on the window pane. He hears yelling but the words aren’t recognizable to him yet. He’s got a pounding headache and he feels like he might be sick. He halfheartedly looks around for a waste bin as he pulls himself up to a sitting position.

It’s bright and airy in the bookshop and everything is silent and still, except for the continued banging near the front door. He takes a minute to gather himself. He’s wearing the same black jeans and t-shirt that he had on last night. He’s got one boot on and the other is missing. A toe wriggles out from his sock. And he doesn’t remember where he tossed his coat. 

Crowley saunters over to the door with one shoe on and flings it open. There’s a man standing on the front steps waiting there for him. He’s balding and his face is weighed down with wrinkles. He’s got the beadiest, angriest black eyes that Crowley’s ever seen. The man points one finger at him and pokes him hard in the chest. 

“You’ve got about two minutes before the police arrive,” the man sneers at him, “Called them as soon as I saw you passed out on Mr. Fell’s floor. You sorry drunk! I’m leaving a note on his door so he can track you down if he needs to sue you for damages.” He pulls out a wad of yellow post it’s from his pocket and pulls off a pen cap with his equally yellow teeth. “What’s your name?” 

Crowley’s mouth forms a tight line. He’s not remembering everything, at least not right away. He’s still struggling with an intense headache and this elderly man with an agenda is not helping matters. The last thing he remembers is Aziraphale asking him to sober up. He casts a glance at one of the end tables and spots his coat. At least that’s one mystery solved.

“Mr. Fell isn’t here, and I’m a guest.” Crowley manages to ground out.

“A guest! You think that man would let a drunk like you sleep on his floor? I’d get a move on if I were you.” The man folds his arms across his chest and glares at Crowley. The demon has to hand it to him; if looks could kill, he’d be dead by now. 

There’s no point in hanging around any longer, especially with so many distractions present. Crowley snaps his fingers and the doors close and lock behind him. The old man doesn’t notice the minor miracle because he’s too busy drawing a small sketch of Crowley on one of the post-it’s. It’s mediocre at best.

“My hair doesn’t part that way.” Crowley points out as he shrugs on his coat.

He starts walking down the street and a police siren blares past him as it makes its way over to the bookshop. He can distinctly hear the man yelling at him to fuck off as he disappears down the block. He’s still missing a boot. All he knows for certain is that he needs two black coffees and a quiet space to think for awhile.

But something is painfully apparent. Aziraphale wasn’t there when he woke up. So where the hell was he?

xxxxx 

Meanwhile Aziraphale is finishing up a rather bland breakfast at a nameless hotel. He almost wishes he hadn’t eaten at all; the dry toast was not satisfying and they didn’t have any fresh honey for his tea. Despite the lackluster meal the angel still manages to thank the desk clerk, who waves him off dismissively before taking a second glance at him as he pushes the glass doors open. 

“Did you recognize that guy?” she asks her manager, who cracks open one eye to look at her. “Awful peculiar. I don’t remember checking him in last night.”

“Half the time I don’t even know who the hell you are,” he says gruffly, “Just man the damn counter.”

Aziraphale is met with the frigid cold as soon as he walks outside. He pulls his coat around himself tighter and trudges onward with no real destination in mind. The apartments he had circled were all throughout the city. He unfurls the newspaper and scans the pages, seeing at least ten viable options for a new space. But he had no idea where to even begin. “With walking.” he finally decides. 

The angel was trying to refrain from performing miracles (which made last night’s outburst even more disheartening). Right now he was existing among the humans and there was no work to be done and no one to report to. But he still was wary of being watched. Crowley’s little pyrotechnic performance had downright terrified the archangels but that didn’t mean he wanted to take any chances. For all he knew, they could still be keeping an eye on him.

So he spends his day viewing apartments around the city, walking to every location. Talking to different real estate agents, although they all seem to have the same mannerisms and quirks. A smile with too much gum showing, fuchsia lipstick, frizzy hair and pencil skirts. They chirp like street pigeons and bombard him with questions. Aziraphale smiles politely and answers them all. No, he doesn’t have any pets. Yes, he’d be able to make a deposit before moving in. Of course, a one bedroom would be just fine. 

He settles on a studio that’s more than halfway across town. It’s cream colored walls are somewhat inviting and they remind him of his favorite coat and the vanilla ice cream cones that he eats in the park. His view overlooks other buildings and he hopes that seeing all the other lights from the many different rooms scattered all over the city will help him feel less lonely. The flat is move in ready, so Aziraphale makes one tiny miracle and pays his fees so he has a place to stay for the night. There’s no furniture yet but it doesn’t bother him. Later on in the evening, Aziraphale sits by the window with a few containers of Chinese food next to him. He watches the sun go down and orange streetlights flicker on at the first hint of a dark blue sky. His new home is deafeningly quiet and barren and he tries not to think about it. He instead desperately focuses on what he can see down below. Cars. People on the sidewalk. Traffic lights. Motorcycles. 

But as the night grows nearer and the flat gets darker, it becomes increasingly obvious that Aziraphale needs to invest in some lamps and things that would be able to distract him. Books, maybe a tv. Some puzzles would be nice. 

Because all he can think about right now is Crowley. Crowley’s golden eyes peering out from under his sunglasses, his forked tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth as he hissed, the way he loomed over him the night before. Once again he hears Crowley’s venomous words that eventually burrowed their way inside of him and took hold, he can hear Crowley yelling these things at him and he draws his knees to his chest as he feels himself start to cry again. 

Before Aziraphale took the keys to his new apartment, his confidence wavered. They felt heavy in his hands. He didn’t want them. He didn’t want this. He thought back to his quaint little shop and the life he had built there and he wanted it, he wanted it back so badly. And he could’ve easily fought for it. If Crowley showed up, he could’ve turned him away. He could’ve taken it back. He didn’t have to leave.

Except Crowley was right. Aziraphale had no one. He was not ever going to have anyone. The angel could never make him stay, there was always other things that called to him, that made him slink away for centuries. He had worked so hard to create a safe space for the two of them, surrounded by things that he loved and plenty of room for them unwind and drift off in each other’s company. How wrong he was to think that things were looking up, that they could spend more time there and more time with each other. How downright foolish, how fucking idiotic of him to believe that the being he had loved for centuries could return those feelings. That he could love him too. 

“Something like you.” Crowley had called him. A thing. Not even a being or a person, but a thing. He doesn’t think he can be back in his shop without thinking of what happened or reliving every moment of it.

“You think someone with a black heart can love something like you? You’re wrong.” Crowley’s voice echoes in his head and suddenly he feels a familiar twinge of pain in his stomach. 

And so he ended up taking the keys and signing the lease. And that’s how he ends up here. 

Aziraphale lays his coat down on the floor. It adds no padding or heat but it’s better than nothing. He lies down on one side, his weight pressing on one of his shoulders. He watches as much as he can of the night before it fades to black. There’s no curtains and he bathes in the moonlight as he lies there, resting. Tufts of white hair haphazardly spill onto the floor as he drools. 

He sleeps again and it’s so much easier than staying awake. 

xxxxx 

Two days pass and Crowley still doesn’t remember everything, but what he can recall doesn’t sit right with him. Aziraphale’s mouth quivering and his sad, hopeful eyes were seared into his brain and he doesn’t know why. He sits at a table for two in a coffee shop but deliberately moves the other chair to a separate table, so it is very clearly a table for one. He’s brooding over his cup of coffee as he checks the local newspaper.

Two days since the angel has been home and he knows he must have fucked up gravely because there was no call, no note, no feisty voicemail on his answering machine. The elderly man rounds the corner every day and peers inside the bookshop, grumbling with displeasure each time he tests the door, only to find it locked. Crowley understands his pain. 

He’s skimming every line of the newspaper for a clue from Aziraphale. Sometimes the angel would leave an advertisement or meddle in the horoscopes section to get a message across to Crowley. A hint about how he was feeling, or where he’d run off to when he was on an assignment. It could be as simple as that, finding an answer from his friend in the fine black print. 

But Crowley is not ready for what he sees. His heart drops into his stomach and he nearly spills hot coffee all over the tiled floor when he reads the very last ad in the paper. 

“A.Z Fell and Co.”

“WANTED - potential buyer for a store front property. Excellent condition. All sales final. Inquire by telephone.”

“No plans to reopen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m probably going to add a third chapter to this!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After nearly two weeks, Crowley and Aziraphale meet up in a dive bar. 
> 
> Crowley’s expecting a fight. He doesn’t get one.

It’s been a little over a week and Aziraphale is feeling more settled into his new place. The apartment’s furniture is brand new and minimal but that suits him just fine. There’s a small bed for sleeping, a table for eating (although there’s an unfinished puzzle spread across it at the moment, when it’s complete it’ll look like the Eiffel Tower), a sofa, two bookshelves, an older model television set and a lamp. He keeps meaning to buy a dresser but consistently forgets so what little clothes he has are folded up neatly on one of the couch cushions. There is one small houseplant that thrives in its spot on the kitchen windowsill. Aziraphale was drawn to it; the leaves are a dark green with flecks of lighter colors throughout. He didn’t check what kind of plant it was until he got home. The little white tab sticking out from the soil read “Devil’s Ivy.”

How charming.

Aziraphale thinks things are going the way they ought to be and so he tries to busy himself, but it’s hard when there’s a constant reminder of Crowley right above the sink. Crowley hasn’t reached out to him at all, which meant that he truly wanted nothing to do with the angel anymore. Aziraphale makes peace with that because what else can he do? If anything, he hates how everything ended so...messily. Why did Crowley turn on him after everything that happened in Tadfield? What could he have possibly done to Crowley in such a short amount of time? The whole ordeal lacks proper closure and it bothers Aziraphale. Showing up drunk and yelling at someone you’ve know for thousands of years is not how you air a grievance. 

But he forces himself to put any thought of Crowley to the very back of his mind. He’s got more pressing matters to attend to. The angel has a meeting later today at some greasy dive bar to discuss selling the bookstore. Out of everyone he had talked to via email he’s got the best feeling about this buyer, even though he’s not looking forward to going somewhere that requires him to pack hand sanitizer. 

Aziraphale showers and brushes his teeth and does all the human routines that will help make him look presentable. He opts for a pressed white shirt and a blue blazer. His brand new pants match the blazer too and he’s got on spiffy, coffee-colored leather shoes. He had stopped by Gabriel’s favorite tailor not too long ago and made one simple request, and that was to not dress him in anything Gabriel would’ve bought himself.

He pauses to look at himself in the mirror. He’s unsure of himself. He looks different, his outfit doesn’t scream ethereal or pure but it’s not terrible either. And some change is good. Like his new apartment, modest but comfortable. 

Aziraphale takes to the streets and weaves through passerby to get to where he needs to be. The bar is the last place you’d expect a business meeting to take place (well, the legal kind). It’s got years of cigarette smoke trapped in its walls and there isn’t a single bar stool that isn’t ripped. He settles for a booth and is startled when it creaks under his weight. He’s brought a newspaper with him to read as he waits.

It’s not long before he hears footsteps approaching and the cushion on the opposite side of the table dips down when someone takes a seat. Aziraphale smiles brightly and sets down his the paper on the table. His smile quickly fades as a very familiar face stares back at him. 

It’s Crowley. 

Crowley, the same Crowley he hasn’t seen for almost two weeks now. Well, not quite the same one. He’s got on fresh clothes, for one thing. He’s chosen a more bold outfit today, a dazzling red suit and a black button up underneath. And despite how dim the lighting is in the bar, he’s still wearing his sunglasses.

And the worst part is, Crowley is absolutely fucking beaming. He looks almost downright tickled. Like he’s run into his old college roommate or something. Someone comes to hand them some rather sticky menus and fumbles with their notepad.

“Coffee.” Crowley says to the waitress as he stares down Aziraphale from his side of the booth. Aziraphale just nods his head in agreement and she leaves to go fetch the coffee pot.

“You are a difficult man to find.” Crowley says after a moment or two. He toys with the napkin dispenser but the angel can feel his eyes on him.

“Have you been looking?” Aziraphale counters. He’s got his signature incredulous look going, where his eyes widen and his stoic face betrays him. Crowley can read him like a book when he’s like this. He’s clearly upset about something. 

And honestly, Crowley is too. Who just up and moves without telling their best friend? 

“Well when you leave without telling me and I find out you’re selling your shop from a fucking newspaper,” Crowley hisses, “I start to look around, yeah.”

“Crowley, I thought you WANTED me to leave.” Aziraphale says, lowering his voice when the woman comes back and fills their coffee mugs. He thanks her and gives her a warm smile, but it disappears the second he gives his attention back to Crowley.

“Why the hell would I want you to go?” Crowley snaps. “You’re making no sense. I don’t know what got into you but you don’t run off and sell all your shit cause you’re mad at me.”

“What about all the things you said?” Aziraphale practically shouts. He bangs his hands on the table and winces at the jarring sound of their silverware shaking. The outburst doesn’t seem to phase anyone in the bar (the majority of the other patrons are half-asleep). 

“Angel I can’t remember much from that night, I honestly don’t know what I told you.” Crowley admits. 

“Really?” Aziraphale says and this time, Crowley can’t get a reading on him at all. His voice sounds distant and even though the angel sitting right across from him, he feels so far removed.

“Yeah really. What did I say that’s got you all in a twist like this?” Crowley asks. He’s starting to feel a little concerned. 

“You swear you don’t remember a thing?” Aziraphale sounds hopeful and that bothers Crowley. Now he’s definitely concerned. 

“No you bloody idiot, now would you tell me?” 

“Crowley...I’m not gonna sell my bookshop, okay? I’ll take it off the market.” Aziraphale says firmly. “You don’t have to worry about that.” 

“Well it’s good you’re speaking some sense now but you still haven’t told me what I said.” Crowley argues. “Just tell me what I said so I can...apologize or something already.”

“I don’t think I will. I think it’s better if we just drop it altogether.” The angel says it like a suggestion but it’s obvious he’s made up his mind about it. Crowley moves to interject, “Angel-“ is all he can say before Aziraphale puts his hand up to stop him from continuing. 

“Crowley, please. This is the best news I could’ve gotten. Let’s just, let’s get out of here.”

Aziraphale pulls money from his pocket and leaves it on the table. The waitress looks slightly annoyed that they didn’t order food but neither of them are particularly fond of grease. Aziraphale moves to open the door for Crowley and the demon can’t help but notice he’s walking a bit faster than he did before. It takes more effort to keep up with him as they walk down the street. 

“I can give you a lift.” Crowley offers. 

“I think I’d rather walk.” Aziraphale tells him. 

Before he walks away, Aziraphale hands him a piece of paper with a phone number on it. He’s changed numbers, and Crowley hates that he hasn’t known this for over a week. He can’t stop thinking about how bizarre everything seemed to be lately. Waking up with a dreadful hangover, not hearing from Aziraphale, finding out he’s selling the bookshop, all for him to decide not to at the very last moment. And whatever Crowley had said to him when he was drunk was enough to scare him off for days, and yet he was willing to sweep it all under the rug and forget about the whole thing.

The whole day leaves a rotten taste in his mouth. Crowley sulks back to his own apartment and looks over at his clock. He decides that tomorrow he’ll stop by the bookshop in the afternoon and surprise the angel with a lunch date.

He counts the hours to pass the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty I thought this would be a 2 part series but it’s looking like it’s gonna be 4 or possibly even 5! Thanks to everyone for reading <3
> 
> I’m adding a note as of 7/19. I will update this fic but I’m not entirely sure when. I’ve written before but only shared my work with my sister, and publishing fics has brought me so much joy and I don’t want to stop. But I’m going through something right now and I want to make sure I give this a true ending. I don’t want it to feel rushed or not true to the story I’ve written so far and I’m not in the mindset for writing tonight. 
> 
> I stand by my work, but I just wanted to give an update. Thank you to everyone who has left kind and positive words on this fic and my others. You’re helping me more than you’ll ever know. Much love - cherrywinecrowley


	4. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley refuses to let one drunken night ruin 6,000 years.

Crowley drops by the bookshop around eleven minutes after it’s opened. He had set a timer for eleven minutes on his watch and had been staring down at it, watching the seconds tick by as the time drew nearer. Waiting outside the shop right at opening seemed like a very bad idea. Far too desperate. Ten minutes after seemed like he had put thought into it, like the whole thing was planned and inorganic. Eleven minutes, however, was casual. It reflected that Crowley knew the angel’s schedule but still had other things to do. Maybe he stopped for a coffee and that left him pushing the doors open just a bit later than exactly ten minutes.

Even if it was just one pathetic minute later.

Crowley couldn’t possibly wait anymore. 

The bell tings for him like it does for any customer. It’s still too early for anyone else to have moseyed in but Aziraphale is still present, tutting around the back. He moves things into place and then frowns before he begins moving them in some other way until he’s finally satisfied. He looks up at Crowley and takes a visible breath, straightening up as he does. And then he smiles.

It’s completely fake, and much too polite. But it’s what Crowley is greeted with and he has to make do with it for now. It’s what he expected, anyway. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Aziraphale asks, still forcing that damned pleasant smile across his face. 

“I uh, lunch. Lunch? Thought we could have lunch.” Crowley says, pointing towards the door. “Are you hungry?”

“Oh, why um, Crowley, it isn’t even noon yet.” Aziraphale points out.

The clock on the wall reads 11:12 proudly and Crowley suddenly wishes he was much, much smaller, small enough to slither away and out of sight. For someone who planned his entrance down to the exact second, he really hadn’t taken into account that a lunch date shouldn't take place for at least another hour. 

Aziraphale sighs and watches as Crowley stares at the floor. The demon is wracking his brain to say anything, anything at all. It doesn’t have to be clever or brash, it just has to be something that will help get the conversation back on track. But the angel takes pity on him and puts a hand comfortingly on his shoulder.

“Brunch?” Aziraphale tilts his head to the side as he makes the suggestion. Crowley nods his head and trails behind him as they leave the bookshop. 

And so they have brunch, and it’s perfectly nice. Aziraphale orders two different types of eggs and Crowley actually tries to eat something, some sort of fancy toast dish that’s priced about six dollars more than it deserves to be, but it’s something to busy his mouth with when their conversations lull. And it happens a bit more than he’s used to. He tries to fill the silences with questions but Aziraphale’s answers are short and sweet and don’t leave much to go on. When the bill comes Crowley scrambles to pay it but the angel insists on “Going Dutch ”, which apparently is slang for splitting the bill in two. Paying exactly for what you asked for. Crowley agrees in a solemn silence and forks out his wallet, anguished over the fact that even something like a meal between them is becoming more alien to him.

Crowley walks him back to the bookshop and waits to be addressed when they make it to the front steps. He doesn’t usually go inside on his own accord when Aziraphale is with him. The angel opens the door for him or invites him in for drinks in the back. He watches as Aziraphale fumbles with the keys and unlocks the doors. A moment hangs between them as passerby weave slowly around the two of them. Aziraphale turns to him, and smiles again.

“Thank you for brunch, my dear fellow. It was absolutely delicious. We must do it again sometime.”

And with that, the angel disappears into the shop, and Crowley lingers for a moment or two before joining the steady stream of people on the busy street.

It doesn’t make sense, none of it does, and Crowley is tearing himself apart in the comfort of his own home, although nothing about the modern grey atrocity is either comforting or home-like. It’s sleek, slate, and aesthetically pleasing but devoid of any sense of personality. But it’s his to wallow in, and so he does. Crowley slumps over in his chair and a memory plays on in his head as he closes his eyes.

The angel, his features taut with worry, was prattling on about heaven and hell and being watched and Crowley mused over what he was saying as he nursed a glass of wine. Sometimes Aziraphale would have thoughts that would worm their way into his brain and take root, and they were not easily quelled. If anything, they spiderwebbed into new thoughts, more unsettling and anxiety-inducing than the last. At first Crowley was fond of the way the angel would work himself up because of the way his hands moved and the pink tinge that would color his cheeks, but he quickly realized that when Aziraphale got into these moods he was genuinely distressed. And so he would reassure him and talk him through whatever thought process he had, and then he would help him reach a solution that would satisfy his worries. 

“No more miracles then,” Crowley suggested. “Little ones here and there can’t hurt. Just whisk up enough money to pay the humans for things and that’s it. Not much use in miracles right now anyway. We’ve got nothing to worry about. We can just be.”

Aziraphale relaxed, a dazed look on his face as he contemplated just being. Not getting reprimanded for doing too little, or stumbling into trouble when he did too much. And Crowley enjoyed the thought of his angel finally letting his guard down.

They had been dancing around their feelings for each other for thousands of years and Crowley made peace with it because that was the only way he could have Aziraphale in his life. He adjusted to the angel’s little barbs, his brassy attitude that was meant to push him away (but only drew him closer; Crowley found it endearing), even being lumped into all the evil acts committed by humanity from time to time. Whatever Aziraphale had to tell himself was fine with him, because no matter what he always let Crowley keep coming back. 

Which is why after 6,000 years and surviving the end of the world, it’s quite literally destroying Crowley to know that he’s mucked things up over one stupid, drunken night that he can’t even remember. 

To hell with it. To hell with what he said before. Everything’s gone to shit anyway, and just because Aziraphale is fine with forgetting everything doesn’t mean he is. If their friendship is going down in flames he deserves to know why, especially if he’s to blame.

Crowley’s particularly proud of his ability to manipulate time. A snap of his fingers and he can take a moment and freeze it in his grasp. He can slow things down, or speed them up if he makes the effort. And when matters were dire, he was even able to spring to a different dimension of time. It’s a an impressive talent to possess, even though it does cost a great deal of energy and precision. Time was made to be quite linear, so having it molded and warped always made things a bit tricky. Even if one was to take just a quick peek into the past. 

And so Crowley focuses on the task at hand and musters all of his strength, moving his hands apart and creating a screen between his fingers. It’s grainy but it works, and that night from weeks and weeks ago begins to play. 

He watches as Aziraphale moves to collect the empty wine bottles that have gathered on the floor in order to fill them. Their voices are low but he leans forward to get a better idea of what’s going on. All of a sudden Crowley boils over with anger and starts yelling, stumbling over as he stands and pointing his finger at the startled angel. Yellow eyes are glued to the screen as Aziraphale flinches at what Crowley snaps at him. It’s obvious that the words cut him like knives as the demon purposefully drudges up all of his insecurities and fears, just to throw them in his face and cause him pain. And the worst part is that Crowley watches as he becomes the ugliest version of himself and all of his terrible glory is on display for the angel to see. He looms over Aziraphale with a pleased sneer that stretches his thin face as he tells him that he could never, ever love him. 

The screen folds into itself and is no more. Crowley takes a moment to blink away several tears before standing up and breaking the stillness of the room. Despite hearing thunder cackle in the distance, he forgoes a coat and tosses the door to his flat wide open as he begins sprinting down the steps, all the way down to the sidewalk. It’ll be much faster to drive, it’s much more sensible to drive, but it doesn’t meet the sense of urgency that he has. And so Crowley continues to run, ignoring the drops of rain that catch in his hair or drip down his cheeks, and he counts down the number of blocks he has left until he reaches the peculiar little bookshop in downtown Soho. 

Aziraphale hasn’t made it up to his flat when Crowley bangs on the door. He’s been reading by candlelight in the shop, trying to keep unpleasant thoughts at bay as the storm continues to pick up outside. He frowns at the sounds of knocking because he worked very hard on his hours of operation sign, and it isn’t the least bit confusing. He pushes up his glasses on the bridge of his nose before he stomps his way over to the door.

“We are most certainly-“ He begins, but the rest of his words die in his throat when he sees Crowley, drenched and shivering from the downpour, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Closed,” Crowley finishes for him, “I know angel, I know. We need to talk.”

Aziraphale wordlessly holds the door open as Crowley steps inside. He drips water onto the hardwood floor and the angel tries not to fret over it. “Really, Crowley, what was so important that it couldn’t wait until after the rain died down? You’re soaked to the skin and you know what can happen when you get too cold, you really shouldn’t be out in weather like this. Why didn’t you miracle the water away? If you get sick-“

“I failed you, Aziraphale.” Crowley says softly, just above a whisper.

Aziraphale focuses on the way Crowley says his name ever so lightly, as if he doesn’t deserve to say it at all. He’s confused, but having a six foot tall demon show up at your doorstep in the evening hours in the middle of a storm can be a confusing situation. “I don’t understand.” Aziraphale says.

“All my life I’ve been protecting you. From anything that could possibly hurt you. From the humans. From angels and demons. Even from yourself. I always prided myself on my ability to sense when you were in trouble. I made sure I was there. I know you didn’t ask me to, but I defended you from everything. And I finally let you down. I’m so sorry.” Crowley chokes out. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to do except let Crowley finish what he has to say, and let him be vulnerable. He’s still dripping wet from the rain and he doesn’t have his sunglasses on, so the pain that he’s feeling is visible all over. His eyes have never looked so dull. 

And then it hits him.

“You know.” Aziraphale says quietly. “You went back somehow. Did you see it? Or hear it?”

“Both.” Crowley says brokenly, wiping at his eyes. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? Or tell me off? Why did it take so fucking long for me to get some accountability? Why, Aziraphale?” 

“Because I wanted to forget. Isn’t that just the saddest thing you’ve ever heard?” Aziraphale laughs, a hollow laugh that only further chips away at the cracks in Crowley’s heart. “I’d rather just sweep it all away. I figured enough time would pass that it would heal everything. And I wanted to avoid, well, seeing you like this. I knew this would hurt you Crowley. I hate seeing you hurt.”

“That can’t be it,” Crowley moves towards him and puts one hand on his shoulder. “Or at least that can’t all be it. You were willing to move. You were willing to sell this shop and leave behind everything you loved because of me. I don’t get it.”

“That’s the other thing.” Aziraphale says quietly. I realized you were right.” 

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to cry and his tears are hot as they fall down his cheeks. Crowley wants to move to wipe them away but he doesn’t know if he should. “What you said, about leaps of faith and the other angels, about you and me, it’s all true. I’ve never belonged anywhere. Not evil enough for hell, not good enough for heaven. I’ve made bad choices, one after the other, and alienated everyone. I’m a being of love but no one, no one could ever love me. And I’ve always known that but I buried that knowledge deep, down inside and it just hurt to have it wrenched out when I wasn’t expecting it. But you didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. That night, I thought you didn’t want me around anymore so I figured it was best to leave. And so I did. I spent my days and nights in a depressing flat and passed my time trying not to think of you.”

Aziraphale pauses for a minute, and then closes his eyes. “When you found me, I wanted to be excited. I wanted to give you a hug even though I know how much you despise them. But I knew that it didn’t change anything though, Crowley. Where else are you going to find eternal company? I know I’m just a companion, something to kill time with. I’ve made peace with that. So I’m sorry, I’m dreadfully sorry that I didn’t tell you how gravely you wounded me, or that I distanced myself when I was hurting, or that I tried to pretend like it never happened. But how the hell was I supposed to cope with the fact that not only did I know that I’m unloveable but that my best friend in the world thought that too?”

Aziraphale turns to look at Crowley, his eyes brimming with tears. He’s emotionally spent from this confession and he moves to sit in a nearby chair. Crowley hasn’t moved. He’s balled his hands into fists and his mouth is in a tight line. He stares emptily at a bookshelf as Aziraphale tries to calm his breathing.

No one speaks for an entire minute.

And then Crowley let’s out a loud, heart wrenching sob, the kind that’s torn from the throat in a moment of extreme pain. He clutches onto an end table and continues to cry, his chest heaving from all the sounds that claw their way out of him. He’s inconsolable. Aziraphale watches uncomfortably, torn between running to him and holding him to his chest and staying put because Crowley needs to let this out. Crowley finally manages some deep, much needed breaths before he chances a look at Aziraphale.

Slowly, Crowley walks over to him. He bends down and gets onto his knees and worms his way between the angel’s legs. Carefully, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hands in his and squeezes. He’s still sniffling and he doesn’t make any move to wipe any stray tears that fall. 

“The one fear that has gripped me my entire life is being away from you. And that eventually evolved into never being anything more significant to you. After Armageddon, I was so fucking terrified that I wouldn’t have the guts to take things further with you, or even worse, you not wanting to take things further with me, that I drank. And I drank. Because it’s the only way I can ever escape those kinds of thoughts. Thoughts that I’m wicked. Disgraced. Everything a demon is supposed to be. Everything you’re supposed to despise. That night...I don’t know what came over me. I think I just short circuited. Broke down, I don’t know. I just couldn’t take it anymore, being in my own head. And I’m sorry I blew up at you. I’m sorry that I made you believe such terrible things about yourself. I’m sorry I let my doubts and my fears manifest into something so ugly that it made me attack you. My precious one.” Crowley starts to cry again and he stops to kiss Aziraphale’s hands. “You are so precious to me, I can’t stand it. I can’t even stand the thought of us being apart. Please, even if you never, ever forgive me don’t ever call yourself unloveable ever again. Please. Aziraphale, as much as anyone has ever loved anything I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Crowley moves upwards and cradles Aziraphale’s face in his hands. They’re both crying and Aziraphale shakily moves forward enough to press a single light kiss to Crowley’s forehead. His arms drape over the demon’s damp shoulders as they move closer. They hold each other and their cries become softer and softer until the only audible sound is rain falling against the windowpane. 

And then Crowley turns his head and presses his lips to Aziraphale’s. Their first kiss is warm and it’s everything either of them hoped it would be. Aziraphale moves to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair and Crowley’s hands are on either side of him, gripping the soft velvet of the chair. Crowley stops the kiss only to start new kisses. Soft ones, small ones, reassuring ones, all over Aziraphale’s face until he’s chuckling, a light little laugh that makes Crowley’s chest swell with an unrecognizable, delightful feeling. Soon the demon eases up and settles for just looking at him, and there’s a peaceful quiet that takes over the bookshop.

Aziraphale is the one to break the silence. “For years Crowley, I thought you were going too fast for me. But in reality, I think I was going far too slow. Would you do me the honor of helping me make up for lost time?”

Crowley smiles and moves to share the seat with the angel. He nuzzles his neck and holds him to his chest, burying his face in the soft, white curls above his ear. “I would love to. Hey, angel?” 

“Yes?” Aziraphale says as his thumb absentmindedly draw circles on the demon’s palm. 

“The only place worth being is right here. With you.” Crowley murmurs. 

Aziraphale smiles, and this time, it’s genuine. Candles are swapped out for dim lamp lights and the rain slowly begins to let up. Early morning sun begins to break apart the clouds and a soft blue creeps it’s way into the dreary sky. A new day has begun. They stay intertwined on the armchair, not moving when impatient patrons make their presence known outside of the door. They miss breakfast, and lunch, and afternoon tea. Instead there are soft kisses and lingering touches that make the hours pass by.

There’s an unspoken promise that Crowley makes to his love that day and he spends every day since then making sure that his promise is kept. And he does this through day trips to seaside cottages and flipping through recipe books to prep a home cooked meal, to referring to his angel as lovely nicknames and making the bed every morning. It’s a commitment towards change, and he’s very dedicated to this because he’s Anthony J. Crowley and whatever he sets out to do, he will do, with style and flair and a concerning amount of motivation. One could measure his ambition by the number of aprons he has bought over the past month. 

Unforgivable is what he used to say he was, but Aziraphale proved to him that wasn’t true. Crowley is in the bookshop for the thousandth time but this time, it’s different. And it’s different because it’s home. He fusses over the bookshelves and tends to them with a feather duster, none the wiser that an angel is watching him from the back room with the silliest grin on his face. 

Crowley doesn’t stop what he’s doing, but turns to steal a glance at him. He cracks a smile.

“I know.” He tells Aziraphale. 

“I love you too.”

“Oh, my love  
I know, I am a cold cold man  
Quite slow to pay you compliments  
Or public displayed affections  
But baby, don't you go over analyze  
No need to theorize  
I can put your doubts to rest  
You're the only one worth seeing  
The only place worth being  
The only bed worth sleeping's the one right next to you”  
“Cold Cold Man” ~ Saint Motel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> For anyone reading this I apologize for the confusion by Chapter 3! There were misunderstandings because I marked that chapter as the end but I did promise a happy ending for our husbands! I’m just still new around these parts. 
> 
> Apologies for the delay, new job, family stress! I hope you like it. I’m a sucker for confessions.


End file.
